As we hurry through dry chaparral, crisp grass clings to the hems of our dresses and pokes into our stockings. Bethany’s steps are so short that I swing her into my arms and rush faster. I still keep a keen eye out for snakes. The pistol in its holster knocks against my hip with every step as I scamper up a low rise, struggling past spindly manzanita branches and clusters of thick sagebrush. With so few of us left in Kenworthy, there is no one else to come running as there once was. I do not know who or what I will find, but we must do what we can if we are to survive another winter alone.
The stone entrance comes into view as I rush over another rise with Bethany still on my hip. The mouth of the shaft is braced up with beams and thick side supports, all hewn from nearby pine, and the boards that barred entry have been taken down. Three mine carts are lodged at the entrance, one of which is turned over on its side. A man kneels on the ground there, hunched over. Whimpering beside him is the abandoned dog from a few days before. Head low, the dog skirts around the mine entrance.
“Mr. Conrad?” I set Bethany down and hasten nearer.
He looks at me, surprised. The skin above his right eye glistens with blood.
I crouch beside him, hoping the closeness isn’t untoward. He brushes his hand against his brow as blood slides down his wrist. His hand. That’s where it’s coming from. More blood stains the dirt beneath the tipped-over cart.
“Just stay and wait,” I call to Bethany, who lingers a few paces off, sage leaves still clinging to her dress hem. I do not have to glimpse Mr. Conrad’s fingers a second time to see how badly two of them have been crushed. My stomach churns as I drop lower at his side. He’s pale as ash. “Allow me to help you, Mr. Conrad?” I speak softly even as alarm draws me up tight.
The dog whimpers again. Mr. Conrad’s chest heaves, and I don’t blame him.
I’m far from a physician, but the town doctor pulled out three months ago. A plan scrambles together in my mind. “I’m going to fetch some water.”
Rising, I hurry to the pipeline where water has been diverted in from what the miners dubbed Pipe Creek. After yanking loose an old sifting pan from a forgotten pile of rubbish, I crank the rusty valve handle. Dry as a bone. Returning the handle to its resting position, I scan our surroundings. Was there not a pump near the stamp mill? The operator’s platform and station that rise above the nearest trees spur me into a run. After a few dozen yards, I pant to a halt near the side of the massive steel stamps where a pump once offered water to thirsty workers. I heave the pump handle up and down until a gurgle rattles the pipe. In a rush, the pan floods full. And I linger long enough to scrub the earth from my soiled hands. I’ve no soap, but this will have to do. Hurrying back, water sloshes over the side of the pan, darkening the front of my skirt and turning dust to mud there. It’s a quick balance to reach Oliver Conrad’s side again.
Kneeling, I take his hand and gently immerse it. He grimaces but stays silent. The clear water soils with dirt and blood, making it easier to comprehend the direness of his injury. These fingers will never be the same. They need to be splinted and bound. A nearby stick serves the purpose, and after beseeching him for a knife, he frees one from his hip with his uninjured hand. As a laundress, I know better than anyone that Mr. Conrad doesn’t keep handkerchiefs in his pocket, so I pull one from my own, ignoring that it’s what little I have left of John, and cut it in half.
Sweat beads on his brow as I secure his injured fingers to the stick. My fingernails are as filthy as his own, but there is no place for formality here. My hands have been laboring for survival in this place same as his own. Perhaps where etiquette was once a careful balance between the sexes, our understanding now springs from grit and grace.
He doesn’t speak often, due to his stutter, so I offer enough words for both of us.
“You’re going to fare just fine.” It’s meant to reassure him, though it’s hard to say how his hand will heal.
I glimpse Bethany waiting where I asked her to, perched on the edge of a sun-rotted arrastra. The dog is lying at her feet as Bethany bends forward on the abandoned grinding mill to stroke the female’s thick fur.
Despite everything, Mr. Conrad regards the dog as if concerned for its well-being instead.
Was the dog in the mine with him? I spare another glance, and she looks alright, but we’ll check together.
I tie the cloth snug, and it’s hard to imagine how the bones will grow back straight. A doctor would do much better, but to seek a physician means paying for the toll road that leads down to the valley town. Such a journey comes with a fee, and simply to reach that road alone is an hour by horseback through the woods—a luxury that neither Mr. Conrad nor I have access to. The choice will be his. At least this will help him get home.
When his hand is wrapped tight, he whispers through short breaths, but I can’t understand. He rises, studying the patch job, and speaks again. “Y-you . . .” He tries again. “Thank. Thank you.”
I stand as well. “Of course.”
His full height is only a mite taller than me, and my attention lifts from his pained countenance to the blood smeared against his brow. His sandy-blond hair is matted with grease and dirt. Retrieving the last of the water from the gold pan, I use the wetness to wipe the streaks of blood away with what remains of my husband’s handkerchief. Mr. Conrad’s eyes fall to my wrist, then to my arm, then to the ground as I finish.
“There. That should do it. Be—”
The words fall short at a rustling in the brush just past the mine. Two wild dogs emerge, followed by a third. I call for Bethany to come to me. The dogs scamper down the hillside, likely drawn by the newest dog that has been left behind. Mr. Conrad calls for the skinny pup. With his stutter, it’s hard to make out the name, but it sounds like Trixie. The dogs surround the female, sniffing and panting. She cowers away, and Mr. Conrad calls again, plowing past them to nudge her free of their crowding. He shouts, coaxing them farther off, and the dogs lose interest, pacing away. One slows and looks back. The new female whimpers but looks up at Mr. Conrad. He holds up his hands, giving her freedom, and she surveys the wild pack again.
Finally, she sits and peers up at her new master. She’s chosen to stay with him. Oliver Conrad’s smile is of a man who knows how to find the blessings when few abound.
I smile too.
He scruffs her between the ears with his good hand while cradling his other to his waist. Seeing as he just gained his new companion, it surprises me when he risks that further by regarding the mud-splattered strays, their knotted fur and wagging tongues, then shifts his focus to Bethany and me. “W-walk you,” he says, and his gentle gaze falls.
“Oh, you needn’t do that.” With the tattered cloth slipping from my hair, I tug it free and pocket it. The brown lengths blow free, which isn’t proper, but this is neither the time nor place to tend to them.
“’Ss . . . ss . . .” Grimacing, he repeats the sound a third time, but nothing else comes out. He swallows before trying again. “’S only right.” He motions for us to start on.
I nod our thanks and coax Bethany to my side. We pass by the dogs as they watch from a distance. The dog next to Mr. Conrad cocks her head to him as though wondering what else the man might voice if he could string the words together. I, too, am curious what else this miner has to say. He’s always been a kind man, albeit quiet. Why he has stuck it out here so long in a land with little rain and even less prospect, I don’t know. I have no right to question his reasons, since I, too, have remained for a purpose that is hard to explain. I wait for a husband who may never return.
What is it that Mr. Conrad waits for?
I glance over to see that he has been watching me. He lowers his gaze.
As we walk, the other dogs lose interest and peel away. It’s been so long since I’ve walked without feeling the need to search for signs of danger. Bethany skips ahead, and I wonder if she feels more at ease as well. The bonnet she should be wearing twirls by its strings behind her. After a time, sh
e slows for us and jabbers away to the reclusive miner. Her voice is so tiny and her skill with words still fledgling that it’s hard for strangers to understand. As he casts me looks for assistance, I gladly translate. He angles his head toward her, appearing thoughtful enough to answer, but Bethany’s constant chatter fills any need to do so. There’s a pleased contentedness to him about it. They make good friends, her voicing every winsome thought, him with his easy silence.
Nearly back to the farm, I push a red-skinned manzanita branch out of the way and brace it as Mr. Conrad steps by its silvery-green leaves. Patches of blood have mottled the white of the handkerchief that keeps his fingers steady against the stick.
Why has he been in the mine? There is no gold.
When I pose the question, he takes his time in responding.
“Ga . . . gathering the carts. They’re . . . they’re sold now.” From his pocket he retrieves a telegram with Edie’s writing. The Fresno Mining Company has requested to hire a man for twelve dollars to unload all the supplies from the mine. They’ve purchased it all for a lump sum, even down to the very last brush and shovel. The toll road and doctor bill to fix his hand could cost that once he factored in lodging for a night, so like the rest of us here, he knows how to do without and get by. Such is life in the West. In these mountains.
Bethany listens as, by and by, Mr. Conrad explains that the company from Northern California has purchased the stamp mill as well as the remaining equipment and carts. It’s all been sold for a fraction of its worth. Men will be on their way as soon as spring to disassemble the mill and . . . I wait as he struggles with the words of what will further redefine Kenworthy. No, not redefine. It will bring our very town, our home, to an end once and for all. It’s hard to hear such a declaration and not give in to fear of what is to become of us. Even the Hotel Corona is scheduled to be dismantled. There will be nothing left. If we must find a way to leave, I will have no choice but to abandon all hope of John.
Beads of sweat have gathered on Mr. Conrad’s forehead again. It could be from the pain in his hand or the exertion of trying to say so much. This poor man needs to rest. I hope that whoever has hired him for this job is paying him well. If he’s like me, though, he’ll work for any wage, no matter how meager. Desperation has a way of doing that to a soul. He didn’t put his life on the line just now for greed but for survival.
How had I not thought of his own stomach pangs? Of his own solitude?
“Please allow me to send you home with something for supper.” I edge us closer to the house, but he slows to a stop. Bethany reaches up for his hand, and I catch her up, hoping the exchange will go unnoticed.
I kiss her cheek. “Run on inside and wash up.”
She counters in her small voice. “But what about—”
“Yes, Mama,” I offer.
“Yes, Mama.” She trots off, waving to Mr. Conrad.
He returns the sentiment but hasn’t accepted my offer.
I try another approach. “That hand’ll be no use to you tonight. Might as well take something to eat so that you can rest it.” Without waiting for him to respond, I head inside.
In the pantry, I fetch two pickled eggs and place them in a tin cup then wrap a square of last night’s cornbread in brown paper.
“Grab me several of those potatoes,” I call to Bethany.
She fetches a pair from the pail and holds them up.
“A little bigger?”
She returns to my side with two of the few that are larger than her hands.
“Good girl.” Back outside, I’m relieved that Mr. Conrad has waited. “Please. Take this.” I extend the makings of a supper—two, actually—and he quietly accepts. A lock of his sandy hair falls onto his forehead, right where my fingers have been only minutes before. He balances everything in a cumbersome grasp.
“And please take care of those fingers. Perhaps soak them in warm water and salt. If you have any trouble, just holler.” Since my cabin lies across the rise from his own, I’d likely hear him from the door of his shanty if he called loud enough. Something we both know he would never do.
He smiles, a small one, then turns away.
The garden still holds some of our harvest. It will all keep until tomorrow. For now, it’s time to wash hands and faces, have our own supper, and say prayers. Then, once I tuck my sweet girl into bed tonight, I will sit down at the desk beneath the window and write to her father about our day. It’s been nearly a week since I have penned a letter to John. Something about witnessing another man’s raw determination reminds me not only of our own struggles but of my husband’s. Of the possibility that he is somewhere out there facing dangers all his own, trying desperately to find his way back to us.
Chapter 6
Johnny
October
Eleven heartbeats. That’s how long it took for my truck to stop sliding across the asphalt.
I felt my wrist break—not even noticing my knee shatter against the underside of the dash. It wasn’t until after I woke up in the hospital that I even knew there was something wrong. After a debriefing from the doctor, I was back in surgery for a knee replacement to pull out the broken bones and get me walking again. The wrist healed nearly as slowly. It doesn’t bother me now, and while I sometimes forget about my artificial knee, there’s times when it just feels weird to walk on. Like something inside me will never be the same and it’s because I’d been reckless. I knew better than to take that corner so fast. I knew to be mindful of black ice. But my brain just shut down.
It was so dumb to let ambulance sirens be what woke it up again.
Kneeling in the barn, I feel the difference between my two knees as I unzip one of my climbing packs. This thing is a mess, but while I won’t be going on any trips this month, I did stash the keys to the side panel of my work truck in here after three days in Zion’s slot canyons a few weeks back.
Digging to the bottom, I finally find the keys under my 60m static rope. Retrieving them, I brush away the sandstone grit that the canyon left behind. The rope goes back in along with my harness and an extra length of cord. I’ve hung most of my gear on pegs on the eastern wall of the barn, so I return the pack alongside the others, hoping to get out there again soon. Until then, there’s lots of bouldering around here, which will be the perfect spot to teach the kids how to rappel. I’ve already ordered a child-size harness, and it should arrive any day. I’m heading up to town now so will check the post office.
At my truck, I unlock the side panel and find more rope as well as what I’ve been looking for all morning: the car charger for my cell. I have no idea why it’s in here, but it’s the one place I haven’t looked.
Armed and ready to go to town, I make sure Rye is settled inside for the morning with food and water, then hit the highway. My sister is coming up for a few days, so it’s a good time to stock up on supplies as well. I made sure she knew I hid a key under the mat for her so she can let herself in if she gets to the cabin first.
Town is quiet on this Wednesday, which makes it easy to grab the mail—still no harness—as well as some groceries that don’t need refrigeration. After loading the two paper sacks into my truck, I walk over to the library to run a quick search on how best to restore the flooring in the cabin. It’s so old that I don’t want to lose the historic patina.
I could just access the web on my cell, but sometimes using a screen larger than a granola bar is too good to pass up.
Two clicks and one more password opens my email. It takes just a second to delete junk mail. One of the remaining messages is from a prospective client, describing the need for a kitchen remodel. I type a quick response, offering to create an estimate for what she and her husband are looking for. The job sounds pretty standard, so I’ll give them a call early next week then crunch some numbers once I figure out how to balance their vision with reality. I hit Send on that, and just below sits a new email from the Realtor.
Nearby, a kid unloads a pile of books into the drop box then trip
s over a trash can when he races back toward his mom. I catch the can and hold it while he stuffs paper back in. He grins at me and hurries on his way. Straightening in my chair, I click Open on the email and wait for it to load.
Johnny,
I received word from the sellers, and they’ll be in California this month. They’d like to come by in the next few weeks and pick up some items at the property.
I try to remember where the Cohens live. Wyoming, I think. From what I’ve heard, it’s been years since they’ve come to the property. I read on.
Basically, it’s a handful of heirlooms that were on exhibit in the gift shop during the reenactment days on the property. The Cohens have indicated the heirlooms are in two lockboxes stored inside the barn. Any chance you’ve seen them?
Either the sellers can come by and retrieve them, or you can drop off the lockboxes at the real-estate office. Any preference? If the boxes are too heavy, let me know, and I’ll talk to the sellers about getting the code. The items were supposed to have been collected by the town’s historical society, but after a series of phone calls, it sounds like they’re all still in the barn—so there’s been a bit of confusion. Your help will be appreciated.
If you need to reach out to the historical society directly, I’ve copied them on this email so you have their contact information.
Also, one more request: I received an email from a student in Palm Springs who is requesting a photograph of the east side of the house. I think she found the property in the Palms to Pines magazine, and apparently the picture is for an important project she’s doing. Would you mind sending one along? Sorry for the trouble with these requests, Johnny. Historic homes tend to hold value to a number of different people and sometimes garner extra attention or community needs than your everyday house. Appreciate your patience and help.
The Gold in These Hills Page 5